


Only Us

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Sex Pollen, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Poisoning, that’s what it must have been. That would explains the sickness, the dizziness, the convulsions, at least. </i>
</p><p><i>He pretends not to hear when d’Artagnan murmurs something under his breath about </i>the Devil’s touch. <i></i></p><p>
  <i>He doesn’t need to tell them that poison doesn’t explain the half of it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> My take on [Sex Pollen](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sex_Pollen). (Yes, this really is what happens when I do tropes.)
> 
> Content warnings: **Dub-con sex** , of the under-the-influence variety. Vomiting, some insect-based horror, and symptoms that may be reminiscent of a bad trip.

Athos wakes to find he is shivering, full-body shudders wracking his limbs near-uncontrollably, as if from a convulsion.

He’s naked, lying on the bare forest floor; and his first thought is that they have been robbed, stripped of everything and left for dead, though when he lifts his still-shaking hand to his head there is no blood, no injury he can discern, though his brain appears to be clamouring to escape his skull in the worst wine-sickness he can ever remember.

_They – where are –_

He stumbles to his feet, spinning wildly round and nearly falling to the ground again as a spell of dizziness takes him, overlaid with a rapidly-mounting panic as the possibilities start to loom large –

– until he sees them at the other side of the clearing, limbs bare where they stick out beneath the blanket, entwined like ropes, and _remembers_.

He falls abruptly to his knees, bringing up nothing but bile.

 

* * *

 

They’d both thrown up, more than once, and now he could tell there was something roiling in his stomach too, sharp pains in his gut and his limbs and an itching under his skin that he couldn’t shake, shrugging off his doublet so he could scratch at himself, barely feeling the chill of the night.

It was then that he saw the insects.

It was like being two people at once. He knew that they were coming for him; and felt at the same time as if they were already on him, crawling all over his skin and spreading fire in their wake. He was dimly aware of ripping off his clothes, screaming _get them off me, get them off me_ , twisting and scratching to brush them away even though he could see that they’d just keep coming, wriggling in and out of view against the forest floor.

Then there were other hands on him, stroking and soothing, bringing up a different kind of warmth, as if they were drawing it out through his skin. He felt like a beacon, shining in the night – and he knew instinctually that the others would protect him, keep them away; and so leaned into that touch, keeping close, keeping safe.

 

* * *

 

Poisoning, Aramis tells them both as he drapes the blanket round d’Artagnan’s shoulders, still shivering even though he’s fully dressed now, hugging his arms to his chest. It must have been something from that village they stopped at, he hears himself say; where they bought dried meat and dark bread, fresh cheese and fruit, refilling their water skeins at the well. That’s what it must have been. That would explains the sickness, the dizziness, the convulsions, at least.

He pretends not to hear when d’Artagnan murmurs something under his breath about _the Devil’s touch_.

He doesn’t need to tell them that poison doesn’t explain the half of it.

Athos doesn’t bother to reply, his face a mask – just reaches for the other skein, that Aramis knows contains unwatered wine, and takes a long drink.

Aramis throws the rest of the food on the ground. It’s not like anybody feels inclined to eat.

He lets Athos ride on ahead of them, nearly out of sight, and stays close enough to d’Artagnan that he can lean over and clasp his arm when the boy starts to cry, telling himself it’s just the shock.

Pretending he believes it.

 

* * *

 

The wind was up, and he still felt sick as a dog, curled upon the ground with his hands pressed to his belly; and he doesn’t know how long he listened to the rustling leaves before he realised they were speaking to him.

_Lonely, lonely, lonely._

How did it know?

He _wasn’t_ lonely, he had his brothers, he told the wind fiercely – and if he believed it, he’d make it so. He’d reach for them both and hold them close, show it just how not at all lonely he was.

 

* * *

 

The idea of sleeping in his own bed makes d’Artagnan cold all over, makes his heart thump as if it’s trying to escape his chest; and so he goes to Aramis, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He’s learnt enough to know that when Aramis kisses him, it’s because Aramis doesn’t know what to do either.

It’s nothing like he remembers. It’s quiet, just them and the safety of the four walls enclosing them, the softness of the bedsheets against their skin, the sensations not at all confusing; and Aramis undresses him piece by piece and just holds him in his embrace for a very long time, more comfort in his caresses than anything else.

Poison, d’Artagnan thinks, would have burned its way through him, left him free of it by now.

This, he’d call bewitchment.

 

* * *

 

_What if the Devil comes, or demons? What if the bogeyman –?_

_What if, what if, what if._

_We’ve got you_ , he wanted to say, _there’s only us_ , but his tongue was thick in his mouth and it was all he could think about when he tried to speak. His tongue, his teeth, his lips.

Lips and lips, a tongue against his, and hands coaxing him down to the ground; two pairs of hands, he thinks, though he’s not sure, every touch white-hot against his skin, eclipsing thought.

_We’ve got you._

That was when he saw the trees start to move.

 

* * *

 

Porthos doesn’t believe it at first. He _can’t_ ; and he almost opens his mouth to say this must be some kind of sick joke when he sees in Aramis’ flickering eyes, the way he can’t quite hold Porthos’ gaze, that _he_ believes it, and so it’s real enough.

Porthos doesn’t care for d’Artagnan’s talk of demons and bewitchment; he believes in the proof of his senses, and what he’s seen in them since they came back is fear, and sickness, and shame.

Never mind Aramis’ theories, his excuses, _this_ is the poison: the way d’Artagnan looks to Athos with something desperate in his eyes and Athos pretends he does not see, the way Aramis tries to distract him and paper over the cracks between them, the way none of them know what to say to each other.

It is Porthos who stays with Athos when it becomes all too clear that he cannot bear the others’ presence any longer; who watches over him as he drinks in silence and carries him home when his legs can’t hold him up, taking off his boots and pulling the blanket over him, and never mentioning the way Athos clutches at his hand when he tries to leave as if Porthos’ presence is the only thing holding him together, and alone he will fall apart.

 

* * *

 

He could feel the panic in his brother, rising like a wave; and so he kissed him to keep him calm, it was all he could think of to do.

He didn’t know it would be _fire_ , orange and white-hot between them, burning up – and they _were_ the flame, he saw that suddenly, felt it right down to his bones. Every touch of their lips like powder igniting in his mind, like he was falling over the edge and just kept falling over and over, like there was nowhere at all to land.

He needed more. Somebody was laughing, or howling, and he needed to lose these clothes, needed to feel that on every inch of his skin, reaching for them and covering their bodies, fingers and tongues the cleansing fire of revelation.

 

* * *

 

“I just remember being scared,” d’Artagnan admits, shivering at the memory even though he’s warm in Aramis’ arms, with the fire burning merrily in the grate.

That reminds him too, as do too many things.

“I didn’t know what of, but I knew you and – and Athos would protect me.” He laughs hollowly. “Now he wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aramis says for the hundredth time, pressing a kiss to d’Artagnan’s hair, shifting to take the weight off his arm where it’s starting to go numb. There’s something sticking out of the mattress that jabs him in the side, and that combined with the numbness suddenly makes him want to get up and scrub himself all over, until his skin is raw.

“He blames himself,” he says instead, also not for the first time. Weighting the words, hoping that this time they will sink in. “Even though he couldn’t  – well. We just need to give him time to come round.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes are accusing, his body braced for disappointment.

 _What indeed_.

“He will,” Aramis replies, with an echo of his old conviction, kissing d’Artagnan again just to shut him up.

 

* * *

 

He knew what they were doing, he did – but his mind was a fish, slipping from his fingers whenever he tried to hold onto his thoughts too tightly, jumping back into the stars.

He shouldn’t look at the stars. The stars were spinning, and shooting down all around them, as if all heaven was falling around them where they lay; and so he turned back into the fire of their bodies and let his slippery fish go, back to the waters where it belonged.

 

* * *

 

Athos drinks until he forgets, or passes out, whichever comes first.

 

* * *

 

It was hurting – _hurting_ , spasming and cramping, and he didn’t know whether to pull them closer or push them away.

 _Shh, shh,_ he heard them say, cradling and petting him as he howled, twisting and jerking in its grip, building black and purple – and just when he thought it’d rip him apart it subsided; and he shuddered, curled into them like a child, closed his eyes against the flickering shadows that lay in wait just beyond the safe circle of their arms.

 

* * *

 

Porthos wishes just once, in an unguarded moment, that he had been there too; and is immediately hit by a shame so deep he feels nauseous with it.

He waits for tears, or sickness, or physical pain – to suffer for them, he realises when none of these things come, for them and for himself.

Easily as selfish as selfless, he thinks.

All that actually happens is that he’s forced to carry that wish with him in his heart as he watches them, powerless as the days pass, none of them getting better.

 

* * *

 

He was home, he was home, the trees flickering wood and stone and the flames still dancing at the edges of his vision, darting away into the night with a swish of their cloaks every time he turned his head. Hiding from him, watching, lying in wait.

The body beneath him had dark hair and was laughing, laughing, she was laughing and for a moment he saw her face, cruel mouth open in pleasure as she writhed against him like a devil, and all the time the laughing never stopped. 

He stumbled to his feet, brown and grey and swaying and ran, ran until he fell and knew no more.

 

* * *

 

“Just talk to me, _please_ ,” d’Artagnan begs, voice cracking – _falling to his knees,_ he’s no more in control than he was that night, and Athos thinks for a moment he might be sick.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks the open window, voice flat. All too aware of Porthos leaning against the wall behind him like a sentinel, Aramis crouching down at the corner of his vision, to put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

He closes his eyes. Movement at the corners of his vision makes him feel like it’s happening again.

“Anything. Just – say _anything_ , I don’t care. Just say _something_!”

“Alright.” He looks at d’Artagnan, _properly_ looks at him for the first time since it happened; and he’d thought the sight would break him down but somehow it just makes him angry, the way the boy’s cast around all this time for someone else to take the burden, blaming witches and demons and God knows what else, debasing himself in Aramis’ bed.

What will he do, when he has nowhere left to run?

“There’s no Devil,” Athos spits – shaking off Porthos’ hand when it lands on his shoulder, his cold satisfaction at the shock in d’Artagnan’s face like stone where he should have had a heart. “There are no monsters, no bogeyman coming for you in the night. Don’t you see? There’s only us. _We’re_ every nightmare you’ve ever had!”

He hadn’t realised he was shouting.

He hadn’t realised he’d stood.

_Nowhere left to run._

“We failed you,” he whispers, sinking to the floor before him.

“Yes, we did,” Aramis agrees, impossibly gently – and Athos doesn’t miss the look of betrayal d’Artagnan shoots him. “But he’s still here. So we’re going to make sure we don’t keep on doing it.”

_Of course._

In trying to make it better, he’s only made it worse.

So he lets d’Artagnan bury his face in his shoulder, and holds him there until own his legs start to ache, go numb from taking all his weight; though he can’t shake the feeling that if nobody were ever to touch him again, it would be for the best.

Still. The least he can do for the boy is take his own advice.

D’Artagnan swallows thickly, whispers something against Athos’ neck, and it takes him a moment to parse the words: “Will it always be like this?”

Athos thinks for a long moment, allows the smell of smoke and stale air to curl at the edges of his mind before replying, “You’ll never be who you were. But nor will you remain who you are now.”

A hand on his head, another on his waist, the weight of two more bodies leaning in; and for the first time since it happened he feels like he can bear to close his eyes and just feel them against him, like he can breathe.

 

* * *

 

 _You were here,_ he heard his brother say as he started to know himself again just a little, wide-eyed and still scratching at his neck; stickiness and sweat against the blankets, their rapidly chilling skin.

 _Of course we were_ , he replied; though he could feel the fire dying beneath his lips as he spoke, his kiss turning to embers, his mouth to ash.

He may have felt like shit but at least he wasn’t lonely, pulling the blanket tighter around them both just as he felt the heaviness take him, pulling him down into the darkness until he knew nothing more.

_And we will be again._

**Author's Note:**

> Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan are suffering from [ergot poisoning](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ergotism), which was relatively common in France throughout the Middle Ages, and was brought on by eating bread made with contaminated rye flour. Symptoms included painful seizures, itching, hallucinations, headaches, nausea and vomiting, and were often interpreted as signs of ‘bewitchment’ (famously, as a possible explanation of the Salem witch trials).


End file.
